


April 4th, 1981.

by 19Thedas80 (VictoryRoad)



Series: 19Thedas80 [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1980s, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Modern Thedas, Multi, Slice of Life, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-18 04:10:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5897695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VictoryRoad/pseuds/19Thedas80
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another day the lives of the University of Ferelden Skyhold-Haven's somewhat reluctant Inquisition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	April 4th, 1981.

**Author's Note:**

> This AU is 1980s set, where most battles were political but magic still exists (your standard mage tends to be able to conjure a light for a cigarette, though, not a hulking blood magic flesh monster).  
> This is the second in a series of vignettes, a stand-alone peek into the lives of multiple characters, and will not be the last of its kind.

>   **Midday. Friday, April 3rd, 1981 – University of Skyhold-Haven Dormitories.**

Bull sighed, lifting the package tenderly. It was wrapped in silk and velvet, a far cry of affectation from his usual fare. On the rare occasions he had received a gift, it was rarely more dressed up than brown paper. It might have a little note, though that was typically functional and the words could be counted on a hand. He eyed it suspiciously, as though the unexpected effort was some sort of trap. What could it contain? Was it a bomb? That seemed unlikely. He handed it back to Dorian, confused but not undeterred.

“But what am I meant to do with it?”

"You open it," Dorian replied quizzically. His expression was somewhere between sardonic and confused, an outward veneer that seemed to be constantly vacillating between thinking the Bull was joking, and showing the self-righteous pity that so many seemed to heap on poor, deprived Qunari by default. Patronising is rarely the goal when it comes to gift giving, but old habits die hard. Tevinter was lush and opulent, full of petty rituals and social banalities that were nonetheless commonplace and almost endlessly aggressive.

"I know what a present is, smartass." Bull turned the package over in his hands, studying the gentle creases on the wrapping. Dorian's face momentarily turned pale with shame, as the full reality of doubting your boyfriend knew what a gift was gripped his heart in thorny fingers.

"Of course, shit," Dorian turned away for a moment, before a familiar thick warmth wrapped around his shoulders. Bull pulled him closer, now studying the present with one hand. It flopped silently as his wrist twisted, a light bow sailing gracefully through the air with each jerked movement. Bull took it as a sign that it wasn’t breakable that Dorian had not gingerly taken it back from him mid-wrist flick.

"I mean," He took a deep breath, "What the hell do you people  _do_ with gifts? Do you wait? Is there a certain day? Am I meant to shred the wrapping? Turn it into a jockstrap? Gimme a hint." He raised an eyebrow at Dorian, but the smaller man wasn't looking at him. Instead his head had found a familiar resting place, neck nestled in the half-crook where his arm met his torso, his mouth breathing lightly against Bull's chin.

"And here I was worried you were some savage who didn't know what a present was." Dorian’s face could have melted Summer Stone with its blitheness.

"You'll have to settle for a man with a big ass and no understanding of what might offend you if I did it wrong."

"I  _like_ your big ass." The arm around him tightened, thick fingers moving southward with a squeeze.

" _Yeah_ you do." Dorian's hands rested gently on Bull for a moment as the pair stopped, a shared moment of inaction. Dorian neither considered what the Iron Bull was thinking, nor enjoyed his familiar feel. Instead he simply lay beside him, in a quiet moment, letting fading sunlight dapple in through age-old wooden blinds. After a blissful eternity, the other man finally raised the package aloft again.

"You can open it now. This is private. We ' _Vints_ '," he intoned with a sarcastic snarl, "love privacy as much as we love pomp and ceremony." He let himself wrap slightly tighter around Bull, their legs intertwining in the bed, sheets pulling and tugging around them in the process.

"But what if this is a trick?" A wicked grin cut across Bull's face, and Dorian didn't need to be looking at it to know it was there. It was teasing in a way that he had always hated, but in this new situation of his seemed almost...  _fun._ There was little fun back home. Just ceremony, the prolonging of ceremony, and the wilful pretension that there was not a script to so-called social graces.

"Open the box or I take it back," Dorian cut in curtly. Sometimes Bull was like a child, and though he wanted to blame Sera's influence on that, the truth was that it was not only an essential quality of the man's, but one that he deeply appreciated. Wonder was something that Tevinter was not fond of, a much greater social importance placed on  _awe,_ but it was also something distinctly un-adult. Wonder fades with knowledge, and he wanted the gift to be wonderful.

As round fingers unfurled the tight bow and intricate ribboning, sparks began to fly. Intentional, of course, as the packaging gave way to a burst of moving light, up from the box and over Bull's hands, running like an animal over his skin and up his arm, darting from shoulder to chest, cutting a thick line between nipples and up again over his chin.

"What the-"

"It's a magical light. It tends to wander, but it'll settle down in a moment. I... I dunno, maybe it was a stupid-"

"Wow." Dorian was sat upright now, his face looking down at Bull's, and there it was -  _wonder._ A state of relaxed terror, a face agape with possibility. The light hovered gently over his nose, small fluctuations in its body reshaping it with each pulse.

"... Do you like it?" He finally asked, terrified of the answer.

"Well, I mean, you know I'm no  _fan_ of magic," He laughed through deep, incredulous breaths, "But this is amazing." He turned to Dorian, who hovered over him like a mother-hawk, waiting for the moment to cover him with her wings. "Thank you. Really." He smiled, reaching up to the other man, until his hot breath began to bounce back in small bursts. "Thank you."

He let their lips meet, less firm than sometimes, but appreciative. Not commanding, merely calming. Through half-closed vision, he could see the outline of Dorian's face lit bright by the magical gift, a silhouette against his own. He raised his hand, gripped tightly, and pulled down, until they were pressed close against each other on Bull's well-worn bed. The light filtered up between them like a constant reminder, a beating pulse that connected them, chest to chest.

 

> **Midday. Friday, April 3rd, 1981 – The Herald's Rest, Upstairs.**

Sera reclined on the bed, considering the stick between her fingers.

“Do you think I should give up smoking?”

It was hard for Squire to know if she was asking genuinely, or if it was just another of her whims. Sera hardly smoked at all – it was strictly bonding for her. A true woman of the people, she did not dare say no if it allowed her to rally the huddled masses outside a club. It was an impressive feat. She was not chameleon – strictly herself at all times – but willing to go along with whatever was happening. How else would you explain her shacking up with a mage at the height of anti-mage sentiment?

“Inky. C’mon.” Sera’s voice snapped her from her reverie – too much internal thinking, not enough action. That, it appeared, was the inquisitor’s peril. Squire Lavellan had never had to think quite as much in her life, and now another question froze her solid.

“Only if you want to,” She finally replied, turning over to rest an arm across the other elf’s body. Squire was stockier than her, but Sera was hardier. She had an archer’s arms – a fact that sometimes threatened to push Lavellan to pleasures hitherto unknown.  She let her fingers dance gracefully on Sera’s bicep as she spoke. “They’re bad for you, but the damage is probably done.”

“I suppose.” Sera had never told her why she had taken up archery, nor had any further elucidation come with the revelation that her current art school project involved firing arrows laden with paint-soaked sponges at canvases. 

There was a lot she didn’t know – in fact, there were moments where Lavellan felt that was a defining feature of their relationship. It was new, she had to admit, but they had been friends since her initial drafting into this strange Inquisition. To know so little seemed strange, but Sera was not conventional. It was not bad that she had gaps in her knowledge – Sera’s personal comfort was far more important. Whatever pull she might feel as the reality of those holes sank in, it was nothing compared to the thought of hurting the chipper elf.

“Do you like cookies?”

The question was unexpected. Squire didn’t have much of an answer – but then again, it was not something she had actively thought about. She paused for a moment, mock-intensity on her face as she considered it. “Hmmmmm, well, I guess…”

“Oh fine, forget it.” Sera threw up her hands, indignant. Squire was break-neck with her own, plaintive apologies spewing from her mouth as she tried to reach in for a hug that  _somehow_ might win her over. “Gerroff,” she grunted, and Lavellan withdrew. “I was only joking. About forgetting it, I mean.”

“Oh,” Lavellan retorted, “Well, I for one have enjoyed this whirlwind tour trip through feelings-town. Affection, confusion, terror, embarrassment. Boy-howdy…” Sera flicked the side of Lavellan’s pillow into her face. A pointless effort that barely tapped the corner against her cheek, but not meaningless. “Alright, I’m sorry. Cookies. That was the question, right? I am ambivalent about cookies.”

“… When I was growing up,” Sera finally continued, a look of uncharacteristic concern on her face, “I was an orphan. My foster mother was a minor noble – crazy, right? Lady Emmald. Some shire or copse or whatever the fuck you’re Lady of nowadays, that was hers. She would bring us cookies from the market, because although she was noble, she’d lost her husband. The money had slowed. Everything went to upkeep and maintenance. You know how it works for women, huh?” Squire nodded her head, a calming assuredness to it. She was listening. She needed Sera to know that.

“Anyway, she’d bring me cookies. With raisins.” She lifted her hand, an invisible cookie held in her grip, a pantomime expression forming. “She baked them herself – so she said, anyway. Meanwhile, we go shopping, I venture out into the town, I live my life, but she  _swears_ the local bakery is owned by this guy who just  _hates_ elves. Like, full on violent hatred. I was furious.”

“Sera,” Lavellan half-whispered. She could see where this was going. It was hard to hear – perhaps it was not the worst thing, perhaps it was minor on some grand cosmic scale, but Sera had been hurt. “She was buying them from him, wasn’t she? Hiding it?” Sera nodded. “What did you do?”

“I…” A lump caught in her throat, and Squire reached out to hold her.

“It’s OK.” She ran fingers through the other’s hair, a slow and gentle movement, her breathing slow and steady so that the movement of her chest was relaxing.

“This was dumb.” Sera rose, picking up her scattered clothes in measured swooping motions. Squire remained still, her body relaxing from the holding pose they’d been in. She had come to expect this – it was not disappointing, it was not frustrating, it was simply how her girlfriend navigated the world. Sera turned, to ask the question she always asked, and Squire welcomed it. “It is, isn’t it?”

“It isn’t,” She replied. “I understand as well as I can. I’ve always had a close community, I don’t know what you’ve been through, but I want to. I want you to be able to tell me these things. I won’t judge you, I won’t shame you, I’ll just listen. I’ll just be here for you.” The look on Sera’s face could have melted ice. There was a softness to her that Lavellan never saw outside of their private time.

“I was thinking… Cookies. Us-cookies. To fix the memory. We could make them.” Lavellan leaned over to the side of the bed as Sera descended once more, and kissed her lips with a quiet longing.

“You know what?” She asked, a smile on her face, “That sounds like the single best idea I’ve heard all year.”

 

> **Midday. Friday, April 3rd, 1981 – University of Skyhold-Haven Library.**

"Lost something?" The voice was a quiet whisper, but it came as something of a surprise to Solas. There were not often others in this section of the library, let alone those willing to draw the ire of the tranquil Librarians who roamed the halls. Solas had always found them unnerving - few, if any, did not harbour any reservations about the procedure at this stage, but politics on either side of the Frostbacks were always beset by some conflict or another, and true progress was rare. It had taken the reign of King Alastair for homosexuality to be decriminalised, and though Orlais quickly followed suit it was still the most progress either nation had made in years. 

"Simply looking for an old favourite," Solas replied. Leliana eyed him with a suspicion that she did not hold lightly. She had been a political consultant for the Warden Party, after all - knowing other people's affairs was her business, and she knew almost nothing of him. He was older than he looked, that much she knew, but even his politics were an enigma. He was a radical Elven separatist - far less rare than many imagined, in truth - while holding most City and Dalish elves in disdain. One group had suffered, but in that suffering willingly given up their history. The other half had lost their history to time and illusion, or so he claimed. Neither could do anything right. It left Leliana with only one true question - what, then, was the right way to be an elf?

“I should be going,” Solas finally intoned, book in hand. She nodded, and he strode towards the lending desks on the lower level, and Leliana was once again alone with her thoughts – for the briefest of moments.

“A puzzle, is he not?” A pale, slender woman with jet black hair appeared from behind a stack of books. She had been well concealed, but such things were not beyond the purview of mages.

“Morrigan, how splendid.” She let a wicked grin cross her face, “The Templars were just looking for roaming apostates.” Morrigan laughed at her joke, and though it had sounded to be malicious, there was a softness between them that any onlooker would have found incongruous.

“It is good to see you again, Leliana.” The former sister Nightingale had trained in many arts, and knowing when someone was lying was chief among them. It was for this reason, or lack thereof, that she smiled.

“You too, Morrigan. Though I cannot say I expected to see such a woman of prestige and learning joining our feeble little inquisition.” The witch’s smile turned into a laugh, a reminder of the nights they had spent drinking between long Warden Party events.

“Feeble? You’ve uprooted an entire academic institution to play politics.” Morrigan folded her arms in mock disapproval. “Such a wonder you have time to deal with minor bodies like myself.”

“My love says hello,” the red head interrupted, motioning to a balcony. The library had not always been such – and it had led to a lot of balconies and awnings that were used by students for study. The building this time, however, was blissfully empty, and the pair could share a moment in peace before disapproving Shush-ing threatened to sour things.

“Does she now?” Morrigan replied with a curious eyebrow. “And how did she know I was coming?”

“I was planning on calling her after we returned from Halamshiral. Wouldn’t you know it, you were there. Just like old times.” She smiled, weakly. “I thought she might like to hear about your new job.”

“Anything to distract from the crushing reality of long distance, hm?” There was a tenseness to the silence between them that Leliana reviled. They had never been close, but they had fought a long and tedious campaign against Loghain and the Denerim Resurgence. Whatever closeness they had, it was hard fought. She had tried, somewhat in vain, to keep tabs on Morrigan, but the mage knew how to make herself hidden. The reason why, of course, Leliana at least knew.

“How is your son?” She asked, turning to the university stretched out before them. In the distance, she could see Dean Vivienne escorting two students from the dormitories. What was the reason, she wondered? She could ask, of course, but she would no doubt hear. She had little birds all over the campus now, and her so-called ravens delivered nothing but ill tidings.

“He is well. I have left him with a book of rather cautionary repute,” She laughed at what seemed to be a private joke. Nightingale did not turn, instead shifting her eyes across the campus is search of distraction. There was a silence between them now, large and empty, built on a curious phenomenon that Leliana had encountered too many times before. They knew each other well, but not well enough to speak at length. She knew too many answers already. Morrigan had too few questions that she cared enough to answer. Instead, there was stillness. It was familiar, if disappointing.

“I should find our dear Inquisitor,” The imposing mage finally spoke, the silence still deafening in memory. “I have news.”

“Of course you do,” Leliana replied curtly. It was not unpleasant, or sour, but merely matter-of-fact. It was why she was here, after all. So many things had happened over the years. It was a joy to see her – to remember what had brought them together though, that was a nightmare.

“Tell our favourite Warden…” Morrigan paused at the doorway to the balcony, her face pensive and uncertain. Leliana turned, but nothing changed. It was like all those nights, on the floor of whichever house they could find to take them, sitting silently when the crushing weight of politics had finally blown the wind from their sails. So many nights, just watching each other. Wondering. “Tell her I’m sorry for leaving.”

“She knows,” Leliana replied. “You were not the only one, and we all feel the same.”

 


End file.
